


Warm Yourself With Me

by Contesa_lui_Alucard



Series: Ghosts of Paterson [3]
Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Dom! Pat, Dom/sub, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Female receiving oral, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, daddy without the daddy, porn without much plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29140938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contesa_lui_Alucard/pseuds/Contesa_lui_Alucard
Summary: It's a snow day! So you know what that means...
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Series: Ghosts of Paterson [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134542
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	Warm Yourself With Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is once again being set in the "Ghosts" Universe, but no prior knowledge is needed.
> 
> Ben is spending the snow day with his grandparents lol

The snow hasn’t stopped falling since yesterday afternoon, a thick layer of it coats the yards and roads outside. The sky is more white than gray, visibility at an all time low, save for the chunkier flakes that whip past the window as the rough winds carry them. The plows are trying, but it’s a lot to keep up with, and the mayor has issued a 24hr travel ban in response. This would be a wonderful thing...

If the mayor hadn’t issued it _after_ Pat had already left for work.

Knowing Pat, he will likely volunteer to drive anyway, be one of the few buses on the road available to aid essential workers. But you worry for his safety, not because you think he couldn’t handle the bus, but because other foolish people attempting the roads may not be as skilled. There could be an accident, he could be hurt, or worse... and you can’t even call him to ask him to come home. Even though you know exactly what he would say, without having to call. He loves you, he dedicates himself to caring for you, but Pat will always help others as well. It’s in his nature.

Dejected, you pull the blankets around you a little tighter, still snuggled in bed as you watch the snow fall. You grip the warm mug of coffee you’d poured earlier, when you’d been wrapped around Pat as he tried to eat his cereal and drink his own mug. Pat didn’t mind though, he never minds, you could hang off of him 24/7 and he’d never brush you away. He always gives you _your_ space, but his space is also your space, if you want it. So you took it, having wrapped yourself around his torso from behind, pressed to his warm, muscular back with the blanket you’d draped over your shoulders wrapped around you both as you softly begged him to be safe out there, to come home to you in one piece. That you’ll make something nice and hearty for dinner, like stew and fresh bread, to warm him back up. You nipped at his soft earlobe as you tightened your arms around his waist, the movement of his spoon lifting to his lips slowing with each moment until the bowl was forgotten in favor of you. 

“Everything will be fine,” he assured you softly, laying his large, capable hands on top of yours as he nuzzled back, “you don’t have to worry about me. Just... keep the bed warm, I want to crawl right back into it with you when I get home.” 

He finished his cereal, buttoned up his shirt, and kissed you slow and deep, palms wandering under your clothes and over your soft curves, before heading out the door, “I love you, honey.”

“I love you too, Pat. Have a good day.”

And now here you were, nestled in bed, keeping it warm as he’d asked, worrying for him.

But you didn’t have to worry for long.

The sound of latches turning echoed through the otherwise quiet house, rousing you from your reverie, followed by heavy boots stomping on the door mat, “Honey! I’m home!”

You practically leap from the bed, the slight chill in the house biting at your exposed skin but you don’t care as you bound into the living room. There stands Pat, covered in snow, shucking off coat, hat, gloves, but stopping to meet your wide eyes, “The mayor declared a state of emergency, no vehicles on the road besides essential services, and they already had a few buses on the route so they sent me home early.”

A smile stretches across your face as you approach Pat, who mirrors it, chuckling at your reaction, even as you take his cold cheeks into your hands and pull him into a kiss, “Welcome home, Pat,” you sigh into his cold lips, making quick work of warming them up. Pat’s hands hover over your hips, not wanting to pull you into him just yet while he’s still dressed in his snowy clothes, but wanting so desperately to run his fingers over the hills and valleys of your beautiful body.

Pat never pulls away first when you kiss him, but this time he can’t wait, breaking contact to quickly peel off his coat. You hold his face in your warm hands even as he undresses, leaving wet clothes all over the floor in front of the door, but neither of you cares in this moment. Pat strips down to his boxers and undershirt, still dry, and then wraps himself around you, leaning in to continue the kiss he broke.

He walks you backwards through the house, leading you to precisely where he wants to be with you, until he lifts you and drops you onto the soft nest of blankets left on the bed.

He continues to kiss you, from your brow, to your chin, down your neck, across your collar bones, as he pulls off what remains of your clothes. He loves you naked, encourages you to sleep naked, spent much of his time in the early days of your relationship praising you as he lifted off layers, kept praising and removing until you loved your own skin as much as he does. There’s something about skin to skin contact, something about running his hands over the planes of your body uninterrupted, about seeing your beautiful form bare under the sheets, that sets him on fire.

“Undress me, Pumpkin,” he whispers in your ear, “I want to feel every inch of you.”

Your breath hitches and you bite your lip, “Yes, Paterson,” hooking your fingers under the hem of his undershirt.

Pat shivers at the sound of his full name on your lips, your explicit consent to his desires noted by the use of it. He loves being called all of the cute things you come up with, Baby, Lover, Papa Kitty, Handsome, but nothing pushes him over the edge quite like the use of his full name does. It makes his heart sing, because nothing feels better than being acknowledged for taking care of the woman he loves. And right now, that is what he has every intention of doing.

He loves his little pumpkin, there will never be anyone like you. And if you ever left him, he’d tear his heart out and never put it back.

_How embarrassing._

Except he isn’t very embarrassed, is he. No, not really, not at all, not when loving you can feel this amazing.

He needs to write a new poem.

You pull the shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside carelessly. His boxers are next, slid off and down his long, lean legs, letting his already filled out cock bob free against his taught tummy.

Then, like the good girl that you almost always are for him… you wait. Hands fidgeting at your sides, eyes heavy with lust and trained on his golden gaze where it hovers above you, ready for instruction.

“You’re so good for me, Pumpkin,” Pat murmurs, eyes wandering down your exposed body, “how did I get so lucky?”

You shiver at his words, at his hot, heavy gaze, trying to resist the urge to cover yourself, to shy away. Pat watches you fidget, smirks, cocks an eyebrow, “Don’t be shy, Pumpkin. You’re beautiful. I’m going to kiss every inch of you, starting with your chest. I’m going to suckle on your perfect nipples, until they’re hardened into perfect little peaks. Then I’m going to kiss a trail down your tummy, until I reach your delicious pussy.”

You moan softly as he speaks, rubbing your thighs together, your core pulsing with want at his filthy words. Pat tsks as he watches you writhe, shaking his head, “Be still for me Pumpkin, show me how patient I know you can be. I’m not finished yet.”

“I’m sorry, Paterson,” you reply breathlessly, straining to hold still.

“I know you are, Pumpkin. It’s very hard for you to release control. But I’ll take care of you, just like I always do. I promise,” you smiles, placing a soft kiss on your cheek. “As I was saying, when I reach your delicious pussy, I’m going to bury my face in it. I’m going to lick it, from your dripping hole to your throbbing clit. I’m going to wrap my lips around that needy little bud and suck, until you come apart for me. And you’re going to let me hear just how much you like what I do for you, you’re not going to hold back.”

You nod, brows knit as you try with all your might to ignore the ache between your thighs, the pulsing heat that threatens to consume you, “Yes, Paterson.”

Paterson smiles, soft and sultry and ravenous, before he lays himself atop you. He keeps most of his weight off of you, but you remain skin to skin, just the way he likes. You want to rub yourself against him, revel in the soft, smooth planes of him, but you refrain. Paterson likes it when you do as he asks, when you two play like this, and you love making him proud. But as his lips press softly against your sternum, trailing their way to your breast, you yearn to give in to your body’s wanton desires. You shudder when his tongue drags lazy circles around one peaked nipple, moaning when crooked teeth nip and pull at it, arching your back to press it further into his mouth. 

He pulls away with a tsk, “Be still, my little Pumpkin. Or I won’t give you an orgasm.”

You try to stifle the whine that builds in the back of your throat, desperately wanting him to give you that pleasure. Paterson loves to give, it’s in his nature, and this is no exception. But he won’t give if you don’t behave for him, not when these games are played.

He’ll always give you everything you need, of course. Even when you tell him you don’t need a thing, that you can take care of yourself all on your own. He knows you can, knows how strong and self-sufficient you are. Knows that you aren’t with him because you need his help, but rather simply because you love him. And he adores you for it, it makes him want to give even more, give you everything he can, give you everything he has. He wants to give, and give, and give, because for the first time in his life there are no strings attached. You love him for who he is, are with him for who he is, and not what he can give you.

So he takes every opportunity to give, give anything, give _everything_ , because it’s the only love language he knows.

“Yes, Paterson,” you sigh, biting your lip and gripping the navy blue bedspread. He smiles, nods, wraps his lips around your previously neglected nipple and sets to work teasing it. Licking, sucking, nipping, until you’re gasping for air, chest heaving beneath him. But you don’t move, and when he pulls off of your nipple he looks so pleased, “So good, Pumpkin.”

“Thank you, Paterson,” you reply softly, and Pat preens at the sound of your thanks on your lips. Before you, who ever thanked him, and meant it? But you do, he knows you do, he can hear it in the strain of your voice, you’re thankful, the sentiment zinging up his spine, right back down to his cock. A little bead of precum leaks out from the flushed tip, so he grips his base hard in one big fist, squeezing, staving off the need he feels pooling in his chest. He wants to shove his cock inside of you and make you scream, make you beg him to give you more, more, until you can’t take anymore, but he won’t be able to stop. His insides twist with the need to give you everything, so he squeezes his cock again, grits his teeth, and resumes kissing down your body.

Control, Pat must exercise his control. He wants to give, he wants to, but he can’t give it all at once. He has to take his time with you, show you how _much_ he can give you, more pleasure than you’ve ever known. He knows your body so well, after all of this time. Knows every inch of it. Memorized every spot that makes you writhe and whimper. He kisses over your ribs, down your sides, across your belly, over your hip bones. Presses his lips to soft, warm, yielding skin, squeezing himself painfully hard when he gets close enough to smell your arousal. 

You’re dripping for him, slick and juicy for him, and he releases his cock if only so he can spread your thighs, nestling between them with his face inches from your needy pussy. His large hands come to settle over your tummy, forearms resting on your hips, fingers reaching to part your folds for his gaze. You whimper as he blows a warm breath over your heated core, molten gold eyes watching intently as your back arches and your hips buck towards him, entrance clenching around air.

“I’m s-sorry,” you stutter, trying to hold yourself still, pressing your head into the mattress and squeezing your eyes shut. It’s so hard, he’s so close, “I need you,” you whimper, “Paterson, _please_ , I need you.”

Your words are the sweetest sound to Pat’s ears. 

He shudders from head to toe, his bones, his blood is on fire, so he presses his face into your core and gives you what you’ve asked him so nicely for.

He devours you, long, broad strokes of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, capturing your lips between his teeth, sucking and biting, spearing his tongue into your entrance, loving the way it desperately clenches around his muscle. He moves up to your clit, focusing on the little nub as it engorges with your arousal, wrapping his plush lips around it and suckling until all he can hear is the symphony of your cries.

He pulls one of his hands from your belly, uses two of those thick fingers to instead slide inside of you, rubbing at your front wall until there’s no stopping your hips from bucking into his face. Your hands come up to tangle in his raven hair, wrapping the soft strands around your fingers, pulling him closer.

“Ohhh P-Pat, Paterso _nnn ohhh yes,_ please, more, _I need more,_ please,” you moan and beg, rolling your hips against his lips, his patrician nose nestled against your pubic bone. He hums against you, nodding before he gives you what you’ve asked for, sucking at the sensitive nub and rubbing against your walls until you’re arching off of the bed.

You cry out, high and broken, before dropping to a deep, satisfied moan. You melt in Paterson’s hands, gushing onto his lips and chin, coating him in your sweet juices.

But he doesn’t stop.

You start to whine, sensitive with the beginnings of overstimulation, “Paterson…?” you ask, so he lifts his head to answer, “You asked for more, Pumpkin, so I’m giving you more.”

You collapse back onto the bed with a groan, heels digging in to Pat’s back as he wraps his lips around your engorged clit once more, suckling even as you cry out and thrash in his hold. 

Your walls flutter around his fingers, squeezing them in a way that has his cock aching to take their place. He wants to bury himself in you, in your soaked, soft heat, but he can give you another orgasm, and he will _always_ give you everything he can give.

After all, you asked.

So he suckles, and he strokes at your walls with his fingers, and he holds you down as you thrash and arch, throwing your head back and releasing a cry that’s almost painful, pulling at his hair harshly in an attempt to pull his head away, only stopping when your entire body suddenly goes taught like a bowstring.

You squirt, the warm ejaculate drips down his chin, his neck, pooling on the bed, but he still doesn’t relent, not until you cry out so loud that he thinks, delightedly, that the neighbors may have heard you. Only then does he finally pull away, wiping his face and neck on the sheets before quickly crawling up your body. You’re wrecked, sweating, panting, mouth ajar and eyes glassy. He loves you like this, undone, and at his hands, no less. Look at what he gave you, he thinks to himself, look at what he can give.

He kisses you, ravenous and rough, sloppy, you can taste yourself on his tongue. He can’t take waiting another moment, he needs to give you one more thing, so he slots his hips between your trembling thighs and lines his flushed and swollen cock up with your entrance. 

You offer no resistance, when he notches the head in your entrance, it slides in with ease, although he still takes it slow, with much effort. You’ve told him over and over how big he is, how big his cock is, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt you with it, even though you’re as pliant as can be right now. 

He presses himself halfway in before he can’t take it anymore, fitting in the last few inches with one rough thrust that sees him nestled to the hilt.

You gasp, hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, his biceps, his back, leaving red crescents in your wake as he begins to pump his hips. He holds himself above you on his forearms, loves the way your jaw drops and your eyes roll back, kisses at your chin, your cheeks, your temple, as you melt into the sensations he’s giving you.

“So good, so right,” he murmurs in your ear as he bucks faster, “perfect. You set my soul on fire, I love to watch you bathe in the flames, drench you in my need, you’re everything to me.”

All you can do is moan, there are no words left for you to speak, except for the four you know he wants to hear. So, breathless, you whisper them, “ _I need you, Paterson_.”

He shudders from head to toe, lifts your pleasure-heavy thighs, crooks them in his powerful arms, and pushes them back until you’re open for him. Then he pounds into you, desperate and delirious, until you’re screaming underneath him. 

He drapes one of your legs over his shoulder, freeing up his hand so he can rub circles around your clit, his eyes fluttering shut when he feels the tell-tale convulsions of your walls around his pistoning shaft.

You shatter beneath him once more, squeezing his cock tightly within you, drenching him in even more of your sweet release. He doesn’t take long to follow you over the edge, his thrusts becoming erratic and rough as he seeks his orgasm. Then he slams home one last time, right to the hilt, and empties his seed inside of you, coating you in him, giving you the only thing he has left to give, in that moment.

Gently he releases your legs, lets them fall on either side of him, as he lays down beside you. Both of your chests heave with the exertion, but when he pulls your face to his, you’re smiling, blissed out and sated.

He smiles back, kisses you with everything he has, lets his fingers trace lines over your cheek, your jaw, your chin, until you find the strength to turn onto your side and curl into him. He drags soothing fingertips up your spine, feeling your breath as it calms under his hand, until it evens out completely. 

You nestle your face into the crook of his sweaty neck, kissing his earlobe before murmuring, “I love snow days,” which forces a chuckle out of him.

“Me too,” he nods, pulling you a little closer.

It’s a while before either of you moves, not even the trickle of his spend down your thighs is enough to give you the strength to rise, but it’s alright.

You have eachother, nestled together in your soft bed, in your cozy house, keeping eachother warm and happy.


End file.
